The next week at Elysium, the air seemed to hum with a different kind of energy, softer and more contemplative than the last. I was nursing a cup of tea, watching the ebb and flow of people, when Marco waved me over to a corner banquette. A man sat alone, staring into a glass of sparkling water as if it might provide answers to some deep, unspoken question. His tailored suit hinted at boardrooms and high-stakes meetings, but the collarless shirt and untied tie draped across his lap softened the look, making him seem both powerful and at ease. His dark hair fell across his forehead in deliberate disarray, and a pair of designer glasses perched on his nose, giving him an almost academic air.
"Cassie, this is Leo," Marco said, sliding away as if he had been waiting for this precise moment of introduction. He was the master of unobtrusive facilitation. "Leo, this is Cassie. She's new."
Leo looked up and smiled, something flickering in his eyes that I couldn't quite read—part nervousness, part genuine warmth. "Hi," he said, extending his hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too," I replied, taking his hand. His grip was firm but gentle, a surprising contrast to the intensity of his gaze. I sat, feeling an odd kinship with him. He seemed out of place and perfectly at home all at once, a walking contradiction that mirrored the one I was living.
"So you're a journalist," he said, his voice low but not hushed. "Marco told me. Don't worry—I won't ask for an exposé."
I laughed softly, a nervous release. "That's good, because I'm still trying to figure out what I want to say about this place. Apparently it's not what I thought."
"It rarely is," he said, a rueful smile on his lips. "When I first heard about Elysium, I imagined…Well, I don't even know. Something out of a cheap novel. But then Marco brought me, and it felt like stepping into a parallel universe." He fiddled with his water glass, tracing the rim with his finger. "A kinder one, in some ways."
We talked about surface things first, as people do when they're navigating new territory—the music (muted jazz tonight), the art on the walls (photographs of bound hands that were abstract but evocative), the quality of the scotch. I felt my guard lowering, realizing he wasn't just a powerful man in a suit but a person who, like me, was trying to make sense of this place. Eventually, the journalist in me won out, tempered by the newfound empathy I'd been cultivating. I asked, "So what do you do outside of here?"
He smiled ruefully again. "By day? I manage a hedge fund. Lots of numbers, lots of stress, lots of decisions. People assume I thrive on control. And I do—in that context." He paused, then looked me in the eyes, his vulnerability catching me off guard. "But by night…what I crave is the opposite. Yielding control. Being told what to do. Feeling hands on me, guiding me." His cheeks colored slightly, and he looked away, but not out of shame. It felt more like the quiet, personal admission of a secret. "Most people don't understand how those two parts of me can coexist."
"Actually," I said gently, and I meant it, "it makes sense to me. I mean, I'm hardly an expert, but from what I've seen, submission isn't weakness. It's…choosing to let go."
Leo's gaze snapped back to me, a hint of profound relief in his expression. It was as if I had spoken a truth he had been longing to hear for years. "Exactly. It's not that I can't make decisions; it's that I make so many all day. Here, I can surrender to someone else's plan. I can trust that they'll care for me, within our negotiated boundaries." He glanced down at his hands, which had been so powerful just hours before in a boardroom, now quiet and still. "It's…freeing."
"Were you always comfortable with that?" I asked, my own history of being a highly-controlled person coming to mind.
He shook his head. "Not at all. I grew up in a strict family. Success was everything. You held yourself together at all times, no matter what. The first time I knelt for someone, I was shaking. Not from fear of them—but from fear of what it meant about me, about my supposed weakness." He smiled softly, a memory playing across his face. "Then the Dom—I didn't know them well—put a hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay. When I said yes, he told me I could stand if I wanted. That it was my choice. That respect, that care…that's what hooked me. He made it clear I had agency. After that, kneeling wasn't humiliation; it was liberation."
We talked for an hour, the conversation flowing between us like a quiet stream. Leo confided that he was engaged once, but his fiancée had no idea about this side of him. "I told her eventually," he said, his voice quiet. "It didn't go well. We broke up." He shrugged, a sad, resigned gesture. "Part of me thinks I did her a favor. Being with someone who hides half of themselves is unfair. But part of me mourns the life I thought I had to have."
"And now?" I asked, thinking of my own hidden life, my own mourning for the story I thought I was writing.
He smiled, a genuine, peaceful expression. "Now I come here when I need to breathe. I let Jennifer tie me up and whip me sometimes. I let Victor talk me through a scene. I let Marco make me laugh and remind me that even serious people need silliness." He sipped his water, the ice clinking against the glass, grounding us both in the present. "It's not perfect. There's fear—of being outed, of being judged. But there's also peace. In those moments when I'm on my knees and someone is running their hand through my hair, everything else falls away. The spreadsheets, the phone calls, my parents' expectations. All I hear is my own heartbeat and the voice of the person I trust telling me I'm doing well."
Hearing him speak so openly about his dual life struck something deep in me. His vulnerability mirrored my own conflict about writing. We both navigated different worlds and tried to reconcile them. "Do you ever wish you could merge the two?" I asked.
Leo laughed, shaking his head. "Sometimes I fantasize about walking into the boardroom wearing a collar. Then I remember HR policies." His laughter faded, replaced by contemplation. "Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to be fully myself everywhere. Maybe the world will catch up. Until then, I choose who to let in. You're here, so I suppose you're one of them."
His trust warmed me, a gift I hadn't asked for and didn't know I deserved. "Thank you," I said. "For telling me. I won't write about you without your permission."
"Thank you," he replied, his eyes crinkling. "And if you ever need someone to talk to about dual lives, I'm all ears. Just…don't let Marco eavesdrop. He'll turn it into a sitcom."
We both laughed, the sound blending into the soft music. As we said goodbye, Leo squeezed my hand briefly. "Safe journey," he said.
"Safe journey," I echoed, a phrase I had learned was used here as a blessing, a farewell, and a promise. Walking back to my table, I felt lighter. It wasn't just because I had made a new friend; it was because I realized how diverse and human the Elysium community was. There was no singular type of submissive or Dominant. There were hedge fund managers and bartenders, artists and doctors. They came here to let go, to connect, to heal. Leo had found relief in yielding control, not because he couldn't handle it in his everyday life, but because he could. That paradox—strength in surrender—resonated with me. Maybe I needed to explore what it meant for myself.